


Break

by faithlessone



Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [24]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Kinda, bit of Hurt/Comfort, i do like making them spar, more sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27164888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlessone/pseuds/faithlessone
Summary: In the command tent before the assault on the Arbor Wilds, Cassandra confronts Brennan on the subject of her being left out of his party, and then forces him to take a break.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756030
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	Break

“I will not permit you to leave me behind tomorrow.”

The look of abject guilt on his face at her words confirms her suspicions.

She shouldn’t have confronted him like this, not now, alone in the command tent at the forward camp. He is supposed to be reviewing the maps, the plans of the woodland between them and the temple of Mythal, before they launch their assault at dawn the following morning. All that separates them from the mass of people, of soldiers and scouts and allies, is a shell of canvas, and it’s not even his. Theirs. They have almost no expectation of privacy here, and still, she confronts him.

But before she can take it back, he opens his mouth.

“I wasn’t…” he starts, and then he hesitates, breathing deeply. “Well, I won’t deny that I _had_ been considering it. You would do well with the army. They respect you. Perhaps more than they do Cullen, even. You saw how they rallied in the camp when we arrived.”

“They rally for _you_ , you foolish man,” she counters. “Their Inquisitor, their _Herald_.”

“Half of them still see me as an upstart mage, I’m certain of it,” he says, with a self-conscious smile. “The disinherited second son of a Marcher Lord of a city they’ve barely heard of. _You_ should have been named Inquisitor. You’re a _warrior_ , a Seeker, royalty, the Right Hand of the Divine, the Hero of Orlais…”

“You were chosen by Andraste,” she interrupts. “And by Leliana, Josephine, Cullen and myself. A unanimous decision. You have proven yourself worthy of your titles a hundred times over. Brennan, this is not news. Where is this coming from?”

For a moment, he looks like he would argue with her further, and then he deflates.

She leans forward to press her forehead against his, and his hand rises, cupping her jaw and stroking her cheekbone with his thumb. His fingers tremble against her skin.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be… It’s just… Tomorrow. Everyone’s here. The last time we made this kind of attack, we fell through a rift into the Fade and… Well, you know what happened. I can’t help feeling that everything’s going to go wrong again; that I’m going to break...”

“Which is why you need me _beside_ you.” She presses her hand over his, holding it to her face.

He pulls his head back, shaking it. His gaze slips away from hers, and she’s sure that he would break away entirely from her if he could.

She tilts her head, pressing a kiss against the palm of his hand. “ _Talk_ to me, Brennan.”

“Do you remember what happened at Redcliffe?”

It’s not a segue she was expecting, and the notion throws her a little. Redcliffe…

“Alexius?”

He nods. “Do you remember our conversation afterwards? Back in Haven?”

Again, she has to think about it. The journey back from Redcliffe had been swift, following the confrontation with King Alistair and the mages. She remembers little of it, save the information that Dorian and Brennan had imparted about a nightmare future. And even then, she had tried not to think too hard on the subject. When they returned, they had gone straight to the Chantry, to a meeting with the rest of the Council. She hadn’t talked to him directly until after that meeting, and even then, it had been very brief, she remembers that much.

“I asked you to make me a promise,” he prompts. “And you could not.”

Suddenly, the memory coalesces in her mind.

And everything becomes clear.

“You asked me never to give my life for yours.”

He nods again. “I didn’t want to take you to Adamant. I almost took Blackwall – Rainier, I almost took Rainier with me instead. But it was _Hawke_ , and I knew you’d be furious with me if I left you behind with the army. I’d just figured out how to make you smile, I didn’t want you to be furious with me. I might have tried to lie to you, made up some kind of story, but…”

Tears are collecting at the corners of his eyes, shining in the candlelight, and she longs to wipe them away, but he still can’t look at her.

“I’d lied to you before, and it almost killed me.”

It isn’t what she is expecting him to say, and she frowns again.

“About what you saw in the future?”

He shakes his head again, the motion causing a few tears to spill. “No. Later. After we closed the Breach, when the red templars attacked Haven. I told you to go with the refugees because you were a… figure of authority, or whatever I said. I can’t remember now. That wasn’t the reason. I sent you with them because I was terrified that you would put yourself between me and the Elder One. Again. That I’d lose you. Again. And then… then _I_ was the one who almost died.”

The door of the tent rustles, and they break apart, Brennan turning slightly so whoever enters will not see the wet tracks on his face.

“Message for you, ser!”

Just a runner. Cassandra takes the small note and dismisses him.

“What is it?” Brennan asks.

She opens it, scanning the brief text. “Josephine. Empress Celene has arrived. Josephine suggests you make an appearance with her before we depart tomorrow.”

“The Empress is in the camp? Here?”

“It would appear so. But, to return to our conversation…”

“I should go and see her,” he cuts in, roughly swiping at his eyes with his sleeve. “Do you think she means now, or tomorrow morning? Do Orlesians rise before dawn? When we were at the Winter Palace it seemed like getting up before noon was an outrage beyond belief. But perhaps that was just during the festivities. Understandable not to want to get up too early if they’re dancing until the wee hours, I assume.”

He’s using this as an excuse, she knows. Because making nice with the empress will distract him from his fears and her questions. A few months ago, she might have let him babble on, leave, taken pity on him, but they are too near the end now.

“Brennan.”

Falling silent, he gives her another guilty look.

“You cannot hide from this. It will eat you up inside.”

He lets out a huff of rueful laughter. “It _has_ been. Like shards of broken glass in my stomach, in my throat. Worse and worse the closer we get to another confrontation with him.”

“Why didn’t you talk to me?”

Even in the candlelight of the tent, she can see the pink flush that spreads across his cheeks.

“I was _embarrassed_. There are so many more important things at stake than me or my feelings, than us or our relationship. I don’t even know if I’m going to survive another confrontation with Corypheus, and-“

“Do not say that.” She doesn’t mean to interrupt, but she can’t listen to him talk like this, not today of all days. “If you go into a fight believing you shall not survive, the Maker might take you at your word, and you shall not.”

He turns his attention back to the plans and toys with one of Leliana’s small map markers. “Well, that can’t be true. I’d be dead half a dozen times over if it were.” Then he looks up again, that self-conscious smile on his lips. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You don’t need to worry about me. You _will_ be in my party tomorrow. With Morrigan, of course, Varric, and Solas.”

She makes a strained decision to let his first comment go. This isn’t the time nor the place to force this particular discussion. She’ll just have to work extra hard tomorrow to keep them both safe so they can have it at another time.

“Solas?”

“I know, it’s been a while. But he _is_ our Elven expert, and our magic balances well. His barriers are second to none. Even Commander Helaine complimented them and said I could learn a thing or two. Besides, I’m still not _quite_ sure I trust Morrigan. Leliana told me to be on my guard around her. Apparently, she hides things.”

She nods. “She was too popular at the Orlesian court not to be a good player of the Game. I would not be surprised.”

“So… did you have any other business for me, or was it just to check who would be in my party at the temple tomorrow?”

The hopeful note in his voice confuses her a little. Is he trying to dismiss her without a fuss, or does he want something else from her?

“Which would you prefer?”

His brow creases for just a fraction of a second, and only then does she remember that he is usually no good at asking for what he wants. Not when it matters.

“I… uh…”

“It is a beautiful day,” she cuts in. “You should come out and enjoy it. With me. If you have finished with the map?”

He glances back down, replacing the raven-shaped marker in its place as if he hadn’t really remembered he was still holding it.

“The route is fairly straightforward,” he tells her. “And I trust our people to know their positions. Further study is… unnecessary.”

“Then you need a break.”

Her voice brooks no argument, and a gentle but genuine smile, the first she’s seen from him since she entered the tent, spreads across his face. “As you wish, my lady.”

The camp is busy with people when they emerge, but the sun is still shining. For a moment, she considers taking him down onto the plateau of rock just west of their position, so they can sit, overlooking the forest below. But sitting in silence will just allow their minds to keep turning on the subject of tomorrow, and neither of them seem much in the mood for storytelling. She has a novel or two in her pack, as ever, but… this is not the place. They read together only in moments of happiness and peace. It would not do to taint the custom.

Instead, she leads them north. There is a small patch of grass and undergrowth behind the tents. She saw some of the soldiers sparring there earlier, but it seems deserted now.

As they reach it, she strips off her breastplate and gambeson, leaving herself in her undershirt, and gestures for him to do the same. At first, he hesitates, and then she strides forward a little further, settling into her customary fighting stance. With a slight raise of his eyebrows, he figures out her plan, his grin turning bright and mischievous as he removes his enchanter coat and the layer of armour that he wears beneath it.

“Honouring me with a dance, Lady Pentaghast?” he asks, flexing his shoulders and stretching out his arms before he settles into place in front of her.

She opens with a solid jab and a smile as answer, a soft laugh escaping her when he blocks it easily and uses her momentum against her, spinning round her to take a shot at her kidneys. Twisting away from him, she uses her knee to try and knock him off balance and he grabs it, twisting with her before they break apart to reset.

It has been a while since they last sparred like this. No weapons or spells, just bare fists and their wits about them. They settle into familiar patterns of jabs and blocks, crosses and counters. He’s learned a few new tricks since the last time; likely from his training with Commander Helaine or sparring with one of his other companions. There’s a particularly tricky leg manoeuvre that has a flavour of Dorian about it. But that just means that she can incorporate more of her own creativity.

Before she knows it, she’s damp with sweat, her hair plastered to the back of her neck, her muscles singing with the activity, her blood humming with her proximity to him.

As if he can read her mind, on her next shot, he catches her hand, lifting it and spinning her under it before he pulls her into a position that is far more akin to a dance hold than a grapple. She breaks out of it, and catches him grinning at her.

Turning to get better footing in the dense undergrowth, she spots people clustered along the edge of the camp. Mostly soldiers, with a few scouts and dignitaries mixed amongst them.

“We have an audience,” she mutters just before her next punch.

Brennan catches her fist again, pulling her hand down and behind his back so she stumbles a little toward him, using the momentum to twist them round so he can see for himself.

“Oh, so we do,” he says, his voice light with only the slightest hint of effort. “Well, we _are_ giving them a show.”

She can’t disagree with that account, so she simply nods. It’s hardly the first time they’ve attracted attention with their fights. It is a frequent occurrence at Skyhold, or in the camps when they’re out on expedition. So long as she doesn’t hear Varric’s voice calling out odds, she’ll let it go.

Instead, she turns her attention back to their match. If they’re going to give a show, it should be a good one.

The next time she dares to glance at the crowd, the sun is glinting off both Josephine’s gold ruffled blouse, and a distinctive figure in a mask and opulent blue gown, much more suited to a ball than a battlefield. Clearly, they have drawn the attention of the Empress of Orlais herself.

Her surprise gives Brennan an opening, and Andraste bless him, he takes full advantage, hooking his leg behind her knees and sweeping her feet out from under her, twisting in time to have her fall almost gracefully over his arm, like a swooning maiden on a dance-floor, her body firmly pinned against his. If she tries to break away, she will fall flat on her back.

“Do you yield?” he asks, just loud enough for the crowd to hear.

She tips her head back. “I yield!”

He drops his head to press a kiss against her exposed throat before he rises, manoeuvring them both upright. Then, still holding her hand, he turns and bows to their audience, whose whoops and cheers turn rapturous at the acknowledgement. She follows suit.

“All right, back to work, everyone!” he calls, with a grin on his face. “Show’s over.”

There are a few discontented mutters, but the crowd seem buoyed by his attention, by his victory, just as Brennan himself is. It was not her intent, but… it _is_ a very helpful turn of events. The soldiers and other personnel begin to disperse, a few of them heading further into the undergrowth to have their own sparring matches, clearly inspired by their leader.

Finally, only Josephine and Empress Celene remain.

“She did request an audience,” he whispers. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

She nods, and they make their way back to the edge of the camp.

“Congratulations, Herald,” the empress notes, as they approach her. “You fought well. And you too, Lady Pentaghast. We did not expect such entertainment this afternoon.”

Brennan inclines his head; not quite a nod, but not quite a bow either. Clearly a compromise worked out with Josephine or Vivienne. “Thank you, your majesty.”

“Next time you are at our palace, after you have defeated Corypheus of course, perhaps we should throw a tourney instead of a ball, no? We should like to see you, and your lady, pitted against our chevaliers.”

He inclines his head again, and she can almost hear the joy that must be coursing through his veins at the idea. “I would be delighted, your majesty.”

The empress smiles, a warmer, more congenial smile than seems natural on her masked face. “This day will be recalled for ages. We are privileged to witness the fulfilment of the Inquisition’s purpose.”

“The sight of our Orlesian allies risking their lives here humbles me,” he responds, and she can hear Vivienne’s careful hours of etiquette training in his voice.

“Your worthy cause would have friends, even if we did not will it. Men and women of faith serve you. Their favour is no less than our own. Their service no less dear. With Orlais at your side, we will see you victorious against Corypheus. May you walk in the Light. But we will allow you both to return to your preparations. _Bonne chance_ , Herald. Lady Pentaghast.”

“And to you, your majesty.”

Josephine gives them both a wide smile, and guides the empress back towards the little knot of dignitaries warming themselves by one of the campfires.

He barely waits for them to be out of earshot before he turns to her. “A tourney!”

“I heard.”

“It’ll be wonderful! When we’re back in Skyhold, I’ll have to ask Michel for tips. He was once one of them, he’ll know all the little secrets about how to defeat them. Things that don’t appear in the story books.”

It cheers her heart to hear him making plans for the future, after their earlier conversation. Now that she thinks about it, it is rare for him to talk about a life _after_ they have defeated Corypheus. In concrete terms, at any rate.

He gives her another grin, taking her hand again.

“I should go and do a loop around the camp, show my face, check on the preparations, let Varric and Solas know I’ll need them in the party with you tomorrow. But after… say, in two hours or so? Do you… Do you think an early night might be a good idea?”

She raises an eyebrow. “An early night?”

His eyes are gleaming. “Yes, an early night. You know. You, me, our bedroll…”

“Ah, an _early_ night. Yes, I… I should think that would be a _very_ good idea, Inquisitor.”

He drops a kiss onto her knuckles, which are a little bruised from the fight, and runs his thumb across her fingers.

“Till then, my lady.”

“Till then.”

She watches him go, moving between the clusters of soldiers, scouts and allies, each person seeming to sit a touch straighter, their head held a touch higher, after he has spoken to them.

And she smiles.


End file.
